


Where The Flowers Go

by cardassianscones



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Building A Home, Domestic Bliss, Family, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Marriage, POV Alternating, Post Dominion War, Post War, Post canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardassianscones/pseuds/cardassianscones
Summary: "Garak?" Bashir blinked, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes in wonder at the beaming Cardassian approaching him. His heart was beating fast, too fast, making it hard to think clearly. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, blushing at his unintended rudeness. "I mean, it's good to see you."





	1. Chapter 1

Where The Flowers Go

 

The transport was about to leave. Bashir took his seat and rested his head on his hand. He pensively gazed past his ghostly reflection into the brilliant darkness of space. Among the myriad of stars his gaze kept lingering on the tiny orange speck that was Cardassia's dying sun.

He'd asked for this assignment. Anything to escape the suffocating feeling of entropy that hovered like a shroud over the station.

Bashir pressed his hand against the cool transparent aluminum, unable to shake the feeling that he was draining away, his spirit growing fainter as one by one the people he cared for disappeared from his life. Every time he turned a corner he was reminded of someone loved – no matter what he told Ezri, he'd always mourn Jadzia – someone now gone.

It was a feeling that had started with his grief over Jadzia's death and spiraled into the bleak emptiness he felt as he sat alone at lunch, the seat across from him empty now that Garak was home on Cardassia. Sisko was still with the wormhole aliens and even if he or Odo did return it would never be the same.

Bashir briefly closed his eyes, fighting the memories. Bit by bit he’d been ripped apart, the bright pieces that were once the cornerstones of his being torn away, never to heal.

And now with Miles back on Earth and Ezri leaving for Trill there truly was nothing holding him on the station.

Miles had asked him to come with them but as much as he missed his friend there was one thing Bashir knew for certain: he wasn't going back to Earth. His face had been all over the news and even though his research had lead to the end of the Dominion war, it hadn't helped his notoriety. He'd rather chew off his own foot than be gawked at as 'the augment' every time someone recognized him.

Cardassia's sun grew from a pinprick of orange to a distinct solar system with eight planets orbiting a dying star.

A strong sense of déjà-vu tightened Bashir's throat. Frontier medicine, adventure, and leaving behind another relationship that was not to be.

He wasn't running this time, not really, Bashir tried to reassure himself.

Unlike his breakup with Palis, his breakup with Ezri had not left anyone heartbroken. Sometimes, when he lay alone in bed at night, he wondered if he had any heart left to break.Wondering if it had not withered and died along with all that was lost in the war.

It didn't matter anyway. In the end whatever they had left didn’t even feel like a real relationship anymore, but a delaying of the inevitable. Deep down he had to admit she was right: they weren't ready to be parents.

The shuttle swerved slightly to evade the ring of debris that now orbited Cardassia and Bashir's luggage shifted under his seat. He pushed it back with the heel of his foot, wondering how everything he owned fit inside.

In less than one hour he'd set foot on Cardassia and would join the Federation Aid Program trying to bring relief to the suffering the Dominion had left in its wake.

Maybe this was what he needed: a new start. And this time he'd get it right.

Starting all over again was a daunting task but this time around he had at least one friend on the planet. Bashir smiled at the memory of their shared lunches, realizing just how much he'd missed Garak's company. He'd get to see Garak again and he promised himself that once he was settled in he would contact his old friend. It would be good to catch up.

Bashir stretched his legs out in front of him, pleased with himself. The thought of seeing Garak again warmed him, made him feel happier than he'd been in days.

They soon entered Cardassia's atmosphere and with every second that they descended the devastating destruction the Dominion had wrecked became clearer. So much death, so much suffering. Bashir surreptitiously rubbed at his eyes, overwhelmed with sadness at all that was lost.

The transport landed in the open, on a small square cleared of debris. Someone had taken haphazard efforts at decoration. Potted plants, some kind of dusty native green succulent with stunningly bright blue flowers, had been placed in intervals around the welcoming area.

Their flags hung united, Cardassian and Federation, off to the side, limp in the stagnant heat.

Bashir stepped off the transporter and shielded his eyes. The unfiltered, unsanitized cacophony of smells, heat and sound of a living planet, of all that was Cardassia City, hit him with force. It came as quite a shock to his senses after spending years on a space station with artificial light and filtered air.

He left his luggage on the transport, figuring that he'd pick it up later, after the official welcome.

Someone had spanned a thin canvas to provide shade and Bashir was grateful for it. After only a few minutes out in the open he could already feel his uniform sticking to his skin and he resisted the urge to loosen his collar.

The glaring blue sky promised an even hotter day to come. The Cardassian officials stood with their backs to the sun, faces obscured by their own shadows, their black uniforms formidable against the bright orange light. It reminded Bashir of a scene straight from one of Garak's favorite novels.

Another transport landed nearby and in the end there were several dozen Federation and Starfleet personnel waiting to be assigned to their posts. Bashir hovered at the edge of the group trying to ignore the muted whispers of _isn't that him, the augment_. The surreptitiously pointed fingers made him straighten his back and stare straight ahead at the somber presence of the Cardassian official waiting to welcome them. Hopefully to the Cardassians he was just another human. No less, or more, welcome than any member of Starfleet.

The speeches that followed were brief and Bashir was thankful for that. Whatever damage the Dominion had caused to Cardassia's satellite network had not been fully repaired yet and his universal translator kept flickering in and out of Standard. Bashir realized that if even here, in the Capital, coverage was sketchy, he'd better brush up on his Kardassi fast. To his chagrin, his enhancements would once again come to his rescue.

When the speeches were over Bashir waited patiently in line for the official to awkwardly shake his hand and for one of the aides to hand him a padd with his assignment.

The sun had risen to what Bashir assumed to be half-zenith and the air was getting impossibly hotter. He suppressed the urge to roll up his sleeves, baking in what he'd later learn was considered a nice spring day.

The voice that addressed him next tore him out of his reverie and pulled him into the present with the force of seven years of memories and a pair of brilliant blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Welcome to Cardassia, my doctor."

Garak smiled at him and Bashir felt as awkward and tongue-tied as when they'd first met.

"Garak?" Bashir blinked, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes in wonder at the beaming Cardassian approaching him. His heart was beating fast, too fast, making it hard to think clearly. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, blushing at his unintended rudeness. "I mean, it's good to see you."

"My dear, do you really think I'd miss the opportunity to welcome you personally?" Garak stepped closer, into Bashir's personal space. "Besides it would be unforgivably rude for the Secretary of Interstellar Cooperation not to welcome you."

When Garak's arms closed around him in greeting, in what Bashir realized was an utterly scandalous human gesture, an almost forgotten electric shiver ran down Bashir's spine and he wondered in a moment of clarity, of longing, _how could I have been so stupid?_

The hurt, the despair that he had not even been aware of lingering like a maleficent cloud over his whole being was swept away with that embrace and a torn, missing part of his soul slid seamlessly back into place, making him feel whole for the first time in almost a year. Bashir let out a contented sigh against Garak’s shoulder, holding on longer than was appropriate, unwilling to let go. And while he didn't know what the future would bring, one thing was for sure: they wouldn't work as friends at all.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time since he’d returned to Cardassia, Garak was looking _forward_ to the workday’s end. He’d spent the past year bustling from one distraction to the next - everything from pulling bodies from the rubble to clearing debris to mending uniforms and to handing out rations. The constant activity kept him grounded, kept his mind off the visible signs that Cardassia was battered, broken, and at the mercy of those who had a hand in bringing Her to Her knees. 

It also kept him from his Assigned Housing Unit, a windowless box stacked atop other boxes like children’s toys, forming an efficient but soulless structure of temporary unity amid chaos. He’d tried to make his new home a little less cheerless with a splash of cerulean paint (Garak tried not to let his thoughts focus too long on the man who had inspired that particular shade of blue), but it was no use. Without sunlight, nothing would ever grow between those four walls except fungus, rot, and Garak’s own despair.

When the evening horn rang through the streets, Garak locked away his padds and data crystals, nodded farewell to his remaining staff, and left the Office of State and Foreign Cooperation. Ade and Zarut were already gone, off making their preparations. He was confident they would exceed his every expectation.

As Garak descended the steps at a measured pace, he allowed himself a small smile. Tonight would be a delight.

Doctor Bashir’s hostel was in the farthest corner of the Munda’ar sector, across from the Federation-erected medical center. Garak found him waiting in the shade of an old Ithian tree, still in uniform, radiant beneath Cardassia’s evening sun. His eyes lit up as Garak approached. “Hullo, Garak,” he said.

“Hello, my dear.” After a second’s hesitation, Garak raised his hand in a silent offering. Julian looked at it for a moment, grinned, and pressed his palm against Garak’s. Garak savored the burst of warmth the contact provided, the physical representation of the connection he felt with this human. “Are these the only clothes you brought?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I brought along a few civilian clothes, but -” Julian glanced at his boots. “Two old ladies gave me a rather thorough scolding for immodesty.”

Garak recalled Julian’s penchant for tight clothing. If tonight went as well as he hoped, he might encourage the good doctor to show him what he’d worn to attract such scandal. “Well,” Garak said, casting the uniform a critical glance, “it’ll have to do.”

Julian snorted and rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the familiar snub. “Lead the way,” he said, taking Garak’s arm.

Somehow, Garak managed a degree of aplomb while escorting the attractive young human to the “restaurant.” When Julian had nervously suggested they go out to dinner, Garak had accepted without thinking, forgetting to mention that their public dining options within the city were limited to designated Meal Distribution Centers. The few restaurants that remained open currently served only foreign dignitaries and the top echelons of the Cardassian Republic. 

A distribution center was no place to have a first date, but luckily Garak still possessed a degree of his past resourcefulness. He’d enlisted the help of his most loyal subordinates. For the past year, Ade had chattered endlessly about her vegetable garden and her budding interest in fine cooking. A woman drawn to culinary pursuits was an oddity, but Garak supposed such thoughts were a remnant of his old Cardassia: obsolete. Outside influences were steadily eroding what were once long-held beliefs. If Cardassia could tolerate Federation aid, surely She could stomach Ade’s regova soufflé.

Garak led Julian down an alley crumbling and dirty with disuse. He didn’t like the doctor seeing this deplorable side of his planet, couldn't stand the pity he saw in those pretty brown eyes, but there was no way around it. While this wasn’t _illegal -_ as a middling bureaucrat, Garak could temporarily requisition abandoned buildings for “training purposes” - he’d rather not attract the attention of passersby. Best to remain undisturbed.

Julian briefly tensed when Garak took his elbow, worry flittering across his expressive face before he relaxed and followed. _Such trust!_

“Here we are,” Garak said, stopping before the building’s rear door. When he caught Julian hesitating, Garak took the opportunity to press a hand to the small of Julian’s back, guiding him inside. “Come, Doctor. I have it on authority that their zabu tenderloin is to die for.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

Zarut stood ramrod straight at the darkened threshold. He greeted them with effusive cheer, gaze lingering curiously on Julian before leading them into the dining area. Julian skewed his head upward, to the expanse of red Cardassian sky where there had once been a ceiling. “Interesting architecture,” he said, shooting Garak an amused look. 

“Rustic, isn’t it?” Garak agreed.

“And is that -” Julian paused, head tilted as _You’d Better Love Me_ piped in through the restaurant’s speaker systems. Part of the reason Garak had selected this location was because he could easily access the universal translator network and thus the Federation’s musical database. “Is that Vic Fontaine?” Julian asked.

“I’m not familiar,” Garak lied, evading the question as he steering them to the table. _You never invited me along to that holoprogram._

A lone table occupied the far corner, covered with a blue satin cloth and faintly glowing beneath candlelight. Julian blushed as Garak pulled out his seat, then nearly knocked over his glass as Zarut snuck over his shoulder to pour the k’hava wine Garak had been saving for a special occasion. Once Zarut was gone to fetch the appetizers (and, Garak surmised, observe their interactions from afar), Julian raised his wine in a toast. “To Cardassia,” he said.

Garak inclined his head. “To Cardassia,” he answered, silently adding, _and to you being here against all odds_. Together, they sipped the wine. Garak could barely taste it. All of his thoughts centered on Julian. Lovely, beautiful Julian haloed in candlelight, come to save him once again from a life of loneliness. He was being maudlin again, wasn’t he? It didn’t matter. He could only hope that _this_ time Julian would be his, wouldn’t leave him for something - or someone - more diverting.

“You outdid yourself, Garak,” Julian said, glancing around with a hint of mischief. “Reserving this _entire_ restaurant, all for us? Must’ve cost you an arm and a leg.”

“Several, in fact. But it was worth it, for you, Doctor.”

Julian’s cheeks dimpled as his blush deepened. He shyly took another drink.

Minutes later, Zarut carried out a bowl of what he called “rokat taramasalata,” a vivid chartreuse dip made of rokat roe and Terran olive oil, lemon, and bread. Many of the Terran ingredients were replicated, but a few, like the olive oil, he'd bartered for. Garak had already sampled and approved Ade’s dishes, so it was especially gratifying to watch Julian’s eyelids lower in pleasure as he enjoyed the salty fusion of Cardassian and human cuisine. 

Next was a hot consommé of larish and Terran beef, followed by the main course - the aforementioned zabu tenderloin. Julian’s eyes went wide as Zarut set down the plate: deep pink medallions of zabu pan-fried in bacon fat, topped with regova liver, garnished with spiraled slices of black truffle, anointed with a rich, glistening yamok demi-glace, and served on a bed of roasted krintar roots and potatoes.

They took their time, savoring every bite. Well, Garak did. Julian still ate at his too-fast human pace, but Garak didn’t mind at all. He’d _missed_ this. Sitting, watching Julian wave his fork, chatting amiably about everything and _nothing_ , exchanging long and meaningful gazes over the table. Garak wondered if his level of infatuation was as obvious as he feared. He’d be eternally grateful to Ade and Zarut for indulging the foolish pining of an old man.

Dessert was oceanleaf tea and a flaky Terran pastry known as baklava. Julian ate it with his fingers, unbothered by the sticky “ _honey” -_ a sweet, amber substance similar to kamoy syrup. Ade claimed it was regurgitated by Terran insects called honeybees, but Garak found it surprisingly delectable despite its unappetizing origins.

Sweet, like Julian. With his skin as golden as the sun-scorched dunes of -

 _Dear me._ Garak swirled the remains of his drink in his glass. _Such florid language is unbecoming of a man of my age._

Once Julian had devoured the baklava down to the last rulot seed, he sucked the honey from his fingers. Garak’s traitorous heart fluttered at the sight of that coveted pink tongue so casually licking across Julian’s flesh. He didn’t know whether to scold Julian for his deplorable table manners or offer his own fingers for a thorough cleaning. _Stop it, Elim. You’re out of control._  

Julian met Garak’s gaze from beneath long, dark lashes. “Oh,” he moaned softly, sitting back and folding his napkin into a neat white square. “I believe I’ve stuffed myself silly.” He looked up as Zarut reappeared to clear away their plates. “I’d like to give my compliments to the chef, if that’s all right.”

Zarut paused. He looked at Garak with a note of panic.

“It’s fine, Zarut,” Garak said mildly. “I think it’s safe to say that he’s on to us.” 

Zarut relaxed. “This way then, sir,” he said, clearly not about to drop the guise of the dutiful server.

They followed him through a pair of doors where Ade had set up her makeshift kitchen. She was hand-scrubbing a pan and turned in surprise as Julian swept inside and fixed her with one of his warm, friendly smiles. “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” he said. “All of you.” He took her hand and shook it. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much in a long time.” 

Ade blinked at him. She inclined her head. “No thanks are necessary,” she said. 

“I hope Garak here is compensating you well for all your hard work.”

Waving dismissively, Ade turned back to her dishes. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean, sir.”

Julian raised a brow in Garak’s direction.

“The young say the darndest things, don’t they?” Garak said. 

***

A “good, brisk walk” was what the doctor ordered. “To aid digestion, of course,” Julian explained, full of faux seriousness. Smiling, Garak happily played along. He led them through the flickering city lights of the East Torr sector. Curfew wasn’t for two more hours and here the power would stay on even beyond that. Plenty of time to enjoy themselves in full view of the public as a courting couple.

Julian was a comfortable presence beside him, his arm linked through Garak’s. A chain of two. “Thank you, Garak,” Julian murmured as they strolled through the art installations. Somehow he looked even more radiant beneath Cardassia’s moons. “You didn’t have to do all that for me, you know. It was a lovely meal, but it must’ve cost a fortune.”

A week’s salary, but it was only money. He’d spend his last lek if it made Julian smile. With Mila gone, there was no one in the universe Garak cared about more. “Oh, it was nothing,” he said. He shrugged on his coat and wrapped a scarf over his neckridges. Now that night had fallen it was becoming chilly. “I called in a few favors, pulled a few strings ...”

“You don’t normally eat like that.” It wasn’t a question.

“Now whatever makes you think that, Doctor?” 

“You’re gaunt, Garak.”

Well, that was rudely stated. Garak fought not to bristle beneath the accusation. Julian was concerned, of course, but it didn’t quite take the sting out. _Everyone is gaunt nowadays, Doctor. Or haven’t you noticed?_

They’d come to a geometric installation overlooking the river. A small, shabbily dressed child peered at them from around a corner. She, no he - Garak could barely tell under the grime and rags - hid the second he caught Garak looking.

“If I ate like that every night,” Garak said, “I’d begin to resemble Enabran Tain more than I’d like.”

“You’re nothing like Tain,” Julian said with unexpected passion and Garak remembered that Julian had spent enough time in Tain's company to make that generous judgment. 

“Not as much as he’d like, I’m sure.”

They ambled along the boardwalk, admiring the sparkling moonlight reflected off the water. Some people were flicking curious glances in their direction. At Julian, of course. It was brief. With their arms so entwined, no one dared come to disturb them.

“You’re avoiding the issue,” Julian pressed. The man couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? Meddling was his middle name.

“Was there a question in there somewhere, my dear?” Garak asked, smiling in a way he knew never failed to antagonize the good doctor.

Julian looked ready to take the bait when Garak felt a small hand reach into his coat pocket. Oh, such amateurs. He caught the child - gently, _gently -_ by the wrist and whirled the little thief around. “My goodness! What have we here?”

Julian gasped. “Was he trying to steal from you?”

“I was not!” said the little thief.

“Oh, is that so?” Garak watched as the boy thrashed, testing his grip. It wasn’t long before it dawned on the boy that escape was futile. He sagged limply with a pout. Garak continued, “Then what _were_ you doing?” 

“Checking your pockets.”

“For valuables?”

“No.” He thought a moment. “For holes.”

Clever lad. Garak exchanged a smile with Julian over the boy’s head. “Well, would it relieve you to learn that I would _never_ leave home with holes in my clothing? But I do thank you for checking. What a thoughtful young man.” 

As the boy realized he wasn’t in trouble, his large gray eyes widened. “You’re -” He smiled tentatively. “You’re welcome.” 

Garak glanced at Julian to find his brow furrowed in concern. He didn’t need to read minds to know that Julian’s heart was bleeding. Now wasn’t the time to break the news that the children’s institutions were overflowing with orphans and that the little dear was likely living on the street with other unfortunate children.

“Here,” Garak said, unwinding the scarf around his neck. He draped it around the boy’s thin shoulders and patted his back. “A reward for your good deeds.”

The boy looked at the scarf, up at Garak, down at the scarf again. He opened his mouth, turned, and took off running. Within seconds, he was gone.

Garak sighed. When he looked over, Julian was fixing him with a sappy grin, his eyes twinkling in that fatuous, Julian-like way of his, well aware that he’d caught Garak doing something embarrassingly sentimental. “Really, Doctor,” he complained. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Can’t help it.”

“That scarf was last season’s fashion,” Garak said, turning toward the river. He could feel Julian sneaking closer. “I was going to throw it out anyway.”

“Mhm. I’m sure that’s why you wore that ugly thing for our first date.”

“ _Ugly?”_

Julian’s grin widened at having caught Garak in a lie. He draped one arm around Garak’s shoulder, using his other hand to stroke Garak’s bare neckridge. Garak couldn’t help but shiver. “Cold?” Julian asked. His warm breath ghosted over the scales of Garak’s cheek.

Garak nodded minutely and swallowed. Oh, his heart was _fluttering!_ “Freezing,” he said.

Julian threw his arms around Garak’s shoulders and brought their lips together for a soft, dizzying kiss. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, kissing him again, “I’ll keep you warm.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bashir squatted down to inspect the wares displayed on the tattered blanket. Markets like these sprang up on the broken sidewalks and in the still-standing shells of burned out houses all over the city. Desperate people selling what little they had left, just to get by another day.

It made Bashir’s heart ache. Not having much use for the money anyway, he'd made it a habit to use what compensation he'd been given to buy the odd trinket, hoping that his purchases would brighten Garak’s day and help the families weathering Cardassia’s reconstruction.

Amongst the usual flotsam and jetsam of tarnished silverware, of trinkets and second-hand clothing, Bashir spotted an interesting-looking wooden box, no bigger than the palm of his hand. The dark lacquer was flaking in bits but the delicate inlay of what seemed to be an ornate double Union symbol in a sky-blue semi-precious stone was still intact.

It was beautiful.

He picked it up, inspecting it carefully. The lid came off when he tried it and the residue of pigment still inside sparkled in stunning shades of azure and lapis in the afternoon sun.

"Is this wedding make-up?" Bashir asked, having seen several of his younger Cardassian co-workers wearing a similar shade when they announced their engagements.

The old woman hawking the goods looked at him then shook her head.

"No Standard." She raised her index and middle finger, making a gesture of applying the pigment to her chufa.

Bashir blushed and repeated himself in Kardasi. The universal translator network was still not reliable anywhere but the government district.

"Yes, it symbolizes the future union." The woman tilted her head at him and then nodded. "You speak Kardasi well."

"Thank you; I've had a great teacher." Bashir gave her a charming smile, hoping to defuse some of the lingering suspicion toward off-worlders. He fiddled with the lid. He'd been studying Kardasi in his free time, both out of necessity and interest. Garak had been more than willing to help him practice.

"Where are you from?" she demanded to know, eyeing him with newfound interest.

"Earth," Bashir supplied, smiling at the by now routine questions of how he liked it here, if he liked Cardassian food, and what his people ate.

Her next question surprised him.

"Are you going to make a home here?" She nodded toward the box of pigment he was still holding, and Bashir caught himself running his finger over the auspicious double Union symbol.

"I – uh –" _Was he?_ He hadn't really thought, no, had tried very hard not to think about exactly that, but she was right. It was a question that had been hanging in the air for some time now. His deployment was nearly over and the thought of leaving, of going back to Earth, made his stomach clench with dread. Both he and Garak had been avoiding it, had been dancing around the pain they saw on the horizon like it would go away if they simply pretended it wasn’t there.

Yet over the course of the past months Cardassia had, against all odds, become his home. He loved it here. The person he cared most for in the galaxy was here. And suddenly the answer was clear, predestined, and it made him smile as his fingers closed possessively around the tiny wooden box that held his future. He nodded.

"Yes."

***

As small as it was, the box with the engagement pigment burned in his pocket, making him giddy and nervous at the same time. As much as he was bubbling over with excitement he forced himself to calm. This needed careful planning.

On his way home Bashir made a detour back to his office, hoping the subspace channels were still online. Quark still owed him numerous favors and now was the time to cash in at least one of them.

He stashed the pigment in his locker, not wanting Garak to find it before everything was ready.

He was going to do it. He was going to ask Garak to marry him.

***

In the end the champagne chilling in a bed of replicated ice had cost Bashir nothing more than an invitation to the wedding and a promise to invite Natima Lang. The Delavian chocolates on the other hand –

Bashir pushed that thought from his mind. Whatever favor Quark would ask in return, it would be worth it to see the delight on Garak's face.

Garak was late coming home from work and Bashir had been pacing nervously in his living room for half an hour, knowing, fearing, hoping that it was only the traffic and that nothing bad had happened. Then he finally heard Garak's footsteps in the hallway. He let out a sigh of relief.

It was mid-winter and the temperature had dropped to 12C which Garak had declared unbearably cold, bundling up in thick layers of jackets and scarves every time he left the building.

Bashir greeted him with a kiss to his cheek and helped him out of his coat. They closed the door quickly, trying to keep the warmth inside. Bashir had cranked up the environmental controls as much as his Federation-built housing allowed but Garak still found it chilly. Not that Bashir objected to any excuse to snuggle under warm, thick blankets.

Bashir feigned nonchalance. "How was your day, luv?"

"As usual, my dear." Garak cradled the side of Bashir's face in his hand, his thumb caressing his cheek. "Much better now that I'm home with you."

Bashir leaned into the caress, briefly closing his eyes in contentment. It was good to have Garak home. The thought of losing Elim, of anything bad happening to him, left Bashir with deep, never felt before existential dread. Garak had become too important to him.

"You look nervous, Julian. Is anything wrong?"

"Elim." Bashir ran his hand up Garak's arm, covering Garak's hand with his own. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

His words caught in his throat when he looked into Garak's expectant eyes. He'd rehearsed this many times in his head yet, now, when facing potential rejection his heart was beating painfully in his chest.

"What is it, my dear?" Garak sounded leery, cautious. Bashir's heart ached at the thinly hidden fear in his lover's eyes.

"Uhm –" Bashir squeezed Garak's hand, fumbling for words. "My deployment is nearly over and Starfleet has been –"

"You are going home." Garak drew in a shuddering breath, shaking his head sadly. He pulled his hand free from Bashir's grasp and turned his head away, unsuccessfully trying to hide the glitter of tears forming in his eyes. "I – I should have been expecting this."

Realizing what Garak must be thinking, that he feared Bashir was about to end their relationship, made him curse his lack of eloquence. He started to panic, fumbling for words. This was not at all what he had intended!

"Julian –" Garak had already reached for his jacket before Bashir could stop him, visibly shaking. "Excuse my lack of decorum, but I – I wish you well."

"Elim, no.”

"Please spare a sentimental, old fool what’s left of his dignity."

“Elim, _wait!"_

Garak stopped in his tracks, his back to him. Bashir's soul ached at the tension in those broad shoulders, the misery radiating from his Elim.

Not knowing how else to reassure his lover Bashir captured his hand and drew it to his lips, kissing the palm. "You are misunderstanding, luv. Let me try again."

When Garak slowly turned around, the hopelessness in his eyes, the fear and doubt and the shimmer of tears on his cheeks twisted something in Bashir's heart. Did Garak trust him so little? How had this gone so wrong? How had he managed to turn something that should be pure joy into tears of despair?

"My dearest Elim …" Bashir went down on one knee, not letting go of Garak's hand. He would get it right this time. He had to.

Taking a deep breath he looked up into Garak's eyes – eyes as dazzlingly blue as the azure pigment – and let the words spill from his heart.

"Will you marry me?"

Nervous in Garak's stunned silence, Bashir fished into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out the ornate box with the blue pigment. _Please don't say no. Please don't run from us._

Garak's eyes darted from Bashir's outstretched hand offering the tiny wooden box to Bashir's eyes and back. Confusion, suspicion, and reluctant hope flitted over his face. "Julian?"

Garak sank down to his knees next to Bashir, his eyes boring into his, assessing what Bashir assumed to be his sincerity. Bashir held his breath, afraid that any movement, any gesture would make Garak bolt, would turn the future he yearned for into a nightmare.

After a moment that seemed like an eternity Garak gave him a slow, earnest nod. "I'd be honored to, my love."

And before Bashir could utter another word Garak cradled his head in his hands and kissed him with such tenderness and longing that all Bashir could do was cherish the moment.

***

Later that night they lay sated, cuddled together on the nest of blankets and pillows they’d made on the floor, gloriously naked and pleasantly buzzed from the champagne. Garak pulled Bashir closer, his arms possessive around Bashir's waist. He kissed Bashir's shoulder, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

"I never thought I'd be granted this, my love." Another kiss to Bashir's neck made him sigh in pleasure and contentment, cool lips lingering for one precious moment. "To Cardassians family is everything. No one has ever wanted to be –"

Garak's voice broke, trailed off into silence, but Bashir knew more than enough about Tain and what an abysmal excuse of a father that man had been to fill in the gaps. He turned in Garak's embrace.

"I do, Elim." He grasped Garak's hand and twined their fingers, pressing their joined hands to his heart, trying to soothe not just Garak's but his own insecurities. "I love you, Elim, and I am honored to make a home here with you."

***

"Elim, can you help me with this?" Bashir looked at his image in the bathroom mirror then turned around and held out the pigment to Garak.

Garak took it from him, dipping his index finger into the sticky blue paste, then stalled. "Are you sure you want to go in to work –"

Bashir pressed two fingers to Garak's lips, silencing him. 

"Yes, I do. And before you start talking about caution: I don't care." He pressed his lips to Garak's cheek, putting all the sincerity of his emotions, the strength of his love, his commitment, into his voice. "And I am most definitely not ashamed of you. I _want_ everyone to know."

The love and adoration in Garak's brilliant-blue eyes touched something deep inside of him and the kiss that followed made Bashir, for the first time in his life, consider ditching work and calling in sick.


	4. Chapter 4

The boxes came up the narrow staircase one by one. Julian puffed from exertion, his thin, sweat-soaked tunic clinging to his lean frame. Garak couldn't help but admire his husband, gallantly carrying a weight that would stymie most humans. _Goodness, Elim,_ Garak chastised himself even as he stole another affectionate glance, _you're indeed far gone._

The banging and cursing had attracted disapproving glances from their new neighbors. As Garak carried up a Hebitian vase (one he’d found miraculously untouched in a bombed-out manse), he caught the eye of an elderly man glaring through the crack in his door.

Garak paused long enough to smile, baring all his teeth. _Especially_ the canines. The door promptly slid shut.

_Ah, well._ Garak had handled such open repugnance before. It wouldn’t go further than a smattering of dirty looks, a muttered “xenophile” when his back was turned. Here, in the heart of the capital, Garak’s reputation preceded him. Nobody would dare harm his dear Julian for fear of having their hides flayed, limed, tanned, dyed, oiled, and turned into tasteful belts. He continued up the stairs.

Inside the apartment, Julian set the box on the counter with a grunt and wiped his brow. “What on Earth do you have in here, anyway?” he said. Before Garak could place the vase safely on a high shelf and intervene, Julian was tearing the box open. “ _More_ books?”

“Those I salvaged from Tain’s residence,” Garak explained, coming over and taking Julian’s hand, twining their fingers. “With our combined collections, we should have a sizable library.”

“Your childhood books? Why, Garak, how _sentimental_ of you.”

“Me? Perish the thought.”

With a small giggle, Julian fell into Garak’s arms. He was warm and damp and salt-scented, a deeply arousing combination that never failed to get Garak's heart beating faster. Garak was relieved when he announced, “I think it’s time for a break. The rest of that lot –” he waved vaguely toward the street outside, “- can wait.”

Garak fixed tea on the new stove, in the new kettle. A wedding gift from Kasidy Yates-Sisko. As Julian peeled away the plastic covering from the sofa and collapsed into its cushions, forming a beautiful offering of long-legged human, Garak marveled at the unexpected and very welcome direction his life had taken.

Months of courting and engagement had culminated in their wedding: a human-Cardassian enjoinment overseen by Alon Ghemor himself on the steps of the Civilian Assembly Hall, where twenty years previously Garak had fulfilled one of his most delicate assignments. Garak had never expected to live long enough to find himself retired from the Order, much less indulging in the luxury of marriage. Yet there he stood that warm summer morning, surrounded by his staff, uniformed officiants from the Bureau of Marriage and Accountability, and Julian’s friends and colleagues from Deep Space Nine.

Their off-world guests made a curious sight indeed.

Among the humans were Richard and Amsha Bashir. It had taken much prodding and many tense communications over subspace, but at last Julian had reconciled with his parents. “We finally let bygones be bygones,” Richard had told Garak on the transport pad, waving bombastically as if the years of fractured trust were all a misunderstanding. As if Garak hadn’t _seen_ Julian turn various shades of fuchsia during the hour-long airing of grievances, hadn't held him in the aftermath when they were alone again and his dear, dear heart had cried out his frustration and hurt on Garak's shoulder. Changed man as he was, Garak let the comment pass with a mild nod.

In contrast to the mixed welcome he’d bestowed his parents, Julian had been _giddy_ with excitement as the O’Briens disembarked the transport from Earth. Grinning, Julian threw his arms around the former chief of engineering, babbling questions about the trip while O’Brien awkwardly returned the embrace and tried to keep up. Garak and Keiko exchanged a surreptitious roll of the eyes.

A day later, the transport from Bajor arrived, disgorging a stream of Ferengi, the Sisko family, and one harried Colonel Kira Nerys. She greeted Garak with a tight-lipped smile and a nod. While Julian and O’Brien busied themselves with exacting revenge on Commander Worf for “that kal’Hyah business,” Garak silently escorted Kira through the Paldar Sector, where Tain’s home had once stood. The reconstruction was slow, but the evidence of Cardassia’s recovery was all around them.

The morning of the wedding, Richard and Amsha kissed Julian’s cheeks and bid him good luck with warm smiles. Garak found himself searching the sky for the predicted ten percent chance of black rain, but not a single cloud tarnished the golden expanse. Beside him, Julian squeezed his hand and said, “It’ll be all right, luv. I promise.”

Julian was right. There was no black rain, no ghosts or Pah Wraiths springing from the grave to intervene in their happiness. The closest thing to a “hitch” had come when young Kirayoshi, dapper in his flower boy suit, began to sob at the sight of the guests trampling his lovely edosian orchid petals. He’d been trying to save the petals by scooping them back into his basket when Kira gathered the boy into her arms and soothed him with slow rocking motions. Only then did his tears stop.

Garak and Julian had exchanged a smile at the minor disturbance. Julian himself had been a breathtaking sight, dressed in a suit of human design, the center of his forehead shining blue with matrimonial paint. When Garak kissed him in front of the gathered crowd, the knot of tension in Garak’s chest untangled for good and he imaged Mila's framed portrait, sitting in a place of honor on a reserved chair in the front row, was smiling fondly back at him.

At the reception, O’Brien had been gracious, offering Garak his hand in congratulations. “On the bright side, if the little bugger gives you trouble,” O’Brien said, subtly tipping his glass in Julian’s direction, “you can have him deported.”

Keiko elbowed him. “ _Miles!”_

“I’m only joking! Garak knows I’m joking.”

Only two faces were noticeably absent: Constable Odo and Ezri Dax. The former was still lost in the Great Link (“He never calls, he never writes,” Quark had complained as he held tightly onto Natima Lang’s hand), while the latter cited a vague illness and promised to view the ceremony on the holodeck once she’d recovered.

Garak didn’t blame her for the lie. Considering how many years he'd longed for Julian's affections on that cold and lonely station, it would've taken every magnanimous cell in Garak’s body to send a single word of congratulations had their positions been reversed.  

The tea had finished steeping. Garak inhaled the fragrant steam then strained the leaves he'd set aside at breakfast. Like life, Garak smiled to himself, tea became sweeter the second time around. He poured the tea, added the requisite four lumps of Terran sugar to Julian's mug, and stirred. The leaves, now flavorless, would become the beginnings of compost for his new garden.

They'd had a sensible courtship and engagement. Quick by some standards, but hardly _whirlwind._ Garak had given Julian plenty of time to reconsider his choice in mates, but Julian had given him a sweet smile and Garak had to admit his love was right when he'd reasoned that seven years were more than long enough. Yet Garak still woke up in the middle of the night amazed to find Julian sleeping beside him.

As Garak carried over the tea, he nudged Julian’s legs off the table. Julian sat up properly, accepting his redleaf with a coy flutter of lashes, and Garak sat beside him, one hand on Julian’s thigh. He watched Julian’s delicate, smooth throat bob as he took his first sip. Mercies. If Garak didn’t know any better, he’d think the heat was affecting _him._

Garak was about to bring up the latest novel they’d been reading when Julian quirked his head and said, “Is that a baby?”

Garak listened. It took him a moment to pick up the signature wail of an infant through the constant buzz of construction machinery. It seemed one of their neighbors had a newborn. After a harrowing year of food rationing and illness, living with the threat of famine in the back of their minds, Cardassia’s population was slowly recovering. Perhaps it might even _boom._

“One with a strong pair of lungs by the sound of it,” Garak said brightly. “Once I unpack my supplies I think I'll sew some baby clothes. It wouldn’t do to let my skills get rusty.”

“That's really sweet of you, luv.” Julian rubbed Garak's neckridge with incandescent fingers, smiling fondly. “And I'll be sure to check in on the health of the mother and baby.”

Garak smiled back. For a time they sat together, listening to the din of the city punctuated by the child’s cries.

“Fussy thing, isn’t he?” Julian said.

“That’s the future of Cardassia, my dear,” Garak said.


	5. Chapter 5

The Trinity Memorial Park (a symbol of the newfound peace between the Federation, Bajor, and Cardassia and one of Elim's pet projects) would officially open next month, but already it was attracting visitors from the nearby neighborhoods.

Green spaces were rare in present day Cardassia City. Cardassia's population had taken a mighty blow under the Dominion attack, leaving vast parts of the city deserted ruins never to be reclaimed. The bustle of people throughout the park foretold a better future to come.

 _Cardassian fauna is hardy,_ Bashir thought as he pushed a dusty-green fern leaf out of their path.

Bashir lovingly squeezed Garak's hand, reveling in the luxury of spending time with his husband. It was one of those few precious days both Elim and he were off duty at the same time. Oh, technically they were supposed to get two days off every ten-day unit, but in reality the shortage of both supplies and labor force often required them to work overtime.

A gecko jumped off one of the low-hanging branches, spread its tiny brilliantly red wings, and landed on Bashir's back. He squirmed as it scampered up his shoulders, tiny feet tickling through the thin cotton of his shirt.

"Hold still, my dear!" Garak caught it, holding the squirming creature out for Bashir to inspect.

"Feisty, isn't he?" Bashir grinned and offered his outstretched hand.

The gecko scuttled over, settled in the palm of his hand and curled up. Bashir could feel its tiny heart beating against his skin. He reached out with one finger and gently petted the creature's head until it made satisfied chirping sounds, closed its eyes, and offered its chin for Bashir to scratch.

"You seem to have a way with Cardassian fauna," Garak remarked, fondness in his voice, and Bashir pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"The feeling is mutual, luv."

Bashir drank in the kiss that followed, heart beating fast with happiness. The heady realization that he could do this, that Elim was his and his alone, was still so new, so enthralling and brimming with a future he'd never dreamed of that he wanted to take it all in and never to let go. He wanted these moments to last forever.

The gecko stirred in Bashir's hand. He set it down carefully onto one of the nearby leaves and watched it scamper away.

This part of the park had only been planted a couple of weeks ago but the lush vegetation had already taken over, filled the empty spaces, crawled in between the paving stones, giving it the appearance of having been undisturbed for centuries.

They crossed a tiny bridge that led over a gently flowing stream and out into a sun-drenched meadow full of wildflowers in bloom and passed numerous benches that had been arranged in charming little groups along the path.

A brightly colored playground was set on a small hill and Bashir smiled at the laughter and delighted shrieks drifting by on the breeze. Seeing children out and about was a welcome reminder of the future they were working toward.

"Doctor Bashir?" a familiar voice addressed him. He turned to recognize one of his colleagues, a Cardassian doctor from the hospital. She was carrying a baby wrapped warmly in a fuzzy blue blanket.

"Doctor Rusat, what a surprise." Bashir smiled at his colleague. "I believe you've not met my husband Elim."

"Elim Garak, at your service, Doctor." Garak held out his hand, palm up in the traditional greeting.

"Nelissa Rusat, pleased to finally meet you." She shifted the baby to a better position against her shoulder and reached out to press her palm against Garak's. "Julian has nothing but fond words for you."

"And who are you?" Bashir addressed the baby, holding his finger out for the little girl to grab.

"Bad luck, my dear," Garak admonished him gently and Bashir tilted his head in question.

"Her naming ceremony is next week," Rusat explained and smiled with pride. "We would love for you to join the celebration if you're free."

"That is most kind of you," Garak thanked her, sounding genuinely pleased by the invitation. "We are honored."

"If you don't mind me asking," Rusat smiled apologetically at Garak, "you look familiar."

"Elim is the Secretary of Interstellar Cooperation," Bashir clarified, knowing that it would be rude for Garak to do so himself.

Rusat shifted her daughter from one shoulder to the other then blushed. "Oh how silly of me not to recognize you. Please forgive my lapse in memory, Secretary Garak."

"Oh please, just call me Garak."

Bashir rolled his eyes at the now all-too-familiar spiel and mouthed along when Garak continued: "Just plain and simple Garak."

The three of them turned their heads in unison at the sound of a child crying. Over by the Federation donated swing sets, a boy of about five years was sitting on the ground screaming. A girl of similar age stood looking down at him, arms akimbo.

"Seren!" Doctor Rusat raised her voice to be heard over the short distance. "Seren, what did I tell you about hitting people we like?" Rusat pinched her eyeridges in annoyance. "Do humans do this too, Doctor Bashir?"

"No," Garak answered in his stead, giving her an utterly fake innocent smile. "They shoot them."

"That's not why I shot you, luv." Bashir mock glared at his husband then smiled, amusement winning over annoyance at the quip. "That's why I only grazed your neck." He pecked Garak on the cheek. "And you know it."

Rusat looked from Garak to Bashir and back, shaking her head in confusion when the children's yelling picked up a notch, now laced with cries of pain.

"Would you mind holding her for a moment, Doctor?" She thrust the infant at Bashir. "My daughter is being impossible."

"But of course–"

Bashir settled the baby against his shoulder, soothingly rubbing the tiny back as he watched her mother hurry over to scold her eldest daughter.

"Are you sure you don't want me to –" Garak offered, giving Bashir a skeptical look.

"It's alright, luv. Babies tend to like me, don't they, Sweetie." Bashir grinned, half talking to Garak and half cooing at the gurgling infant. "It's because I'm a big, warm, cuddly mammal, isn’t it?"

Garak stepped closer to the two of them, wrapping his arms around Bashir, his voice pitched low, intimate, only for Bashir's ear. "I'm not going to argue with that, my dear."

They stood like that for a moment and Bashir briefly closed his eyes, soaking up the serene domesticity of it all, and then a thought floated to the foreground of his mind: he could get used to this. Elim and he would make wonderful parents, wouldn’t they?

They watched as Doctor Rusat crouched down and talked to her daughter, scolding her. The child gave her a tight nod then intently looked down at her own feet. Rusat picked up her daughter and started chatting with the little boy's mother.

There was a bench a few feet away and Garak nudged Bashir toward it. They sat down in the brilliant sunshine, the baby fast asleep on Bashir's shoulder, her tiny fists wound tightly into his shirt. Garak reached out and caressed her still hairless head, running the tips of his fingers over the still soft ridges on her skull.

Bashir smiled and leaned against his husband, content in the here and now.

The idea nagged him all the way home, long after Rusat and her daughter had said their goodbyes and late at night when Garak was wrapped around him, sleeping with his head pillowed on Bashir's chest. He wondered: could they? Was it possible?

Bashir smiled to himself in the comfortable darkness and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he had some research to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Julian had been first to arrive home.

When Garak stepped through the door, weary from a day plagued by the demands of his aides and constituents, his dear Julian had dinner waiting on the table, piping hot from the replicator and filling their little apartment with the scents of smoked paprika, capsicum and, Garak's face lit up: hot rokassa juice. Garak crossed over to the other side of the table where Julian was sitting and, leaning down, kissed the tip of his husband’s nose. Julian’s answering smile was beatific. As they ate, they discussed the day’s events. Afterward, as usual, they retired to the living room to unwind with dessert, tea, and some light reading.

An evening like any other.

Garak was sitting in his favorite chair, halfway through a novella by a young up-and-coming writer from Lakarian City. Years ago, he might’ve found the story’s subject matter dreadfully saccharine and idealistic, but these days Garak found himself strangely enthralled by tales of love lost and rediscovered, of simple pleasures and renewal. Perhaps he might even loan the story to Julian when he was finished.

Garak glanced over the top of his book. Across the room, Julian was slumped in his plush lounging chair, feet propped up, the stack of padds in his lap threatening to spill onto the floor. Sound asleep. Switching off his reader, Garak rose to his feet and crept up for a better look.

Julian’s chin was tucked in, his mouth ajar. He wasn’t snoring - yet - but it was only a matter of time. Garak smiled down at his dozing husband. Gingerly, he slipped a pillow beneath Julian's neck and kissed his brow. Julian’s lips twitched upward, but he didn't rouse. Poor, trusting thing. He was quite tired, wasn’t he? 

Garak carried Julian’s cold tea to the kitchen and, as an afterthought, gathered up the padds in his lap before they could tumble to the floor. As Garak moved to set them on the nearby table, he hesitated. It couldn't hurt to peek, could it? His eyes lowered to the first document - written in Kardasi - and paged up to the heading.

“Marginalizing Unpredictable Labor: Cardassian Pregnancy in the Reformed Union Regime.”

Garak pursed his lips. That was sure to put _anyone_ to sleep. He shuffled the padd to the bottom of the stack and inspected the next one.

“The Use of Myofibrilin for Ovulation Induction and Superovulation in Cardassian Males Ages 50 - 95.”

Garak raised an eyeridge. This was curious. Perhaps the next padd would offer some elucidation? 

“Prognostic Models for the Probability of Achieving an Ongoing Pregnancy after Controlled Ovarian Hyperstimulation: A Study of Intrauterine Insemination with Human DNA.”

No, this wasn’t helping at all. Garak picked up another.

“Successes in Lakat Show Reduced Aneuploidy in Early Cardassian-Human Embryo Development.”

And yet another:

“Casting off the Yolk: Endometrial Receptivity and Matrotrophy--Why Hybridization with _Homo Sapiens Sapiens_ Could Change the Way We Look at the Placenta.”

Garak skimmed the last article, taking in words like _oviduct_ and _blastocyst,_ reading none of it. It could be nothing. Julian could be conducting research on behalf of a patient. Nothing to do with him. Although rare, it wasn’t unheard of for male Cardassians to induce ovulation and become pregnant, especially in trying times like these. With the Federation swarming Cardassia, it also wasn’t a logical leap to assume a few Cardassians would take a human for a mate. This could very well have nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to do with him. The thought left him oddly disappointed.

Garak set the padds aside. A memory drifted to his mind. A week ago. They’d been invited to the naming ceremony of Doctor Rusat’s infant daughter. Julian had been eager for a chance to hold her again, shouldering past an elderly grandmother and scooping little Peret out of her mother’s arms. As he cradled the baby, Julian’s eyes drifted closed. When he looked up at Garak, his eyes were brimming with joy. And longing.

Garak recalled a few days ago. He’d been trimming the Vulcan roses thriving in their balcony garden when, in a moment of inattention, he’d cut his finger on an especially sharp barb. The blood had welled between the scales, red-black. A clumsy, stupid mistake.

Julian’s doctorly senses must’ve been on high alert; he appeared at Garak’s side at once with a dermal regenerator, tsk tsking. “You really should be careful, luv,” he’d teased, rolling his eyes at Garak’s half-hearted protests and passing the beam over the minor injury. Within seconds, the scales were healed and Garak had returned to his labors.

It was then that he’d noticed Julian scanning him with the tricorder. “Just checking for infection,” Julian cheerfully explained. Garak tried his best to ignore him - he’d learned the hard way that fending off these unnecessary medical intrusions was pointless and had in fact at one point nearly cost him his life. When it came to Garak’s health, Julian was relentless. Better to feign cooperation and get it over with.

Garak did notice, however, that Julian seemed to focus on his abdomen for a protracted amount of time. 

Julian smiled and snapped the tricorder shut. “Everything checks out,” he said.

Garak looked between the table of medical journals and Julian’s sleeping face. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but it seemed obvious now. 

Julian wanted to have a child.

With him.

Garak shook his head as he tried to process this stunning revelation.

His thoughts drifted again, to the first night they’d been intimate together. He’d brought Julian to the small living quarters he'd called home. They'd tumbled across the bedroll, heedless of bruised elbows and sore knees, surrounded by four bare walls and the few treasures Garak had scavenged from the rubble. Boxes of fragile dishware. Stacks of books. Bottles of aged kanar. Rugs and paintings. Relics of his old Cardassia.

“I love you,” Julian declared against Garak’s neckridge. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Garak pulled back enough to look at Julian. Beautiful; his skin sweat-glimmering and golden-hued in the flickering lamplight. Eyes half-lidded. Sated and above all: _sincere._ Garak was overwhelmed with emotion. “As do I, my dearest. I love you more than any words can express.”

He wanted to try. Garak wanted to caress poetry into Julian's skin, sing stanzas in growls and love bites. Instead he kissed Julian's bare shoulder and nuzzled his cheek, unable to contain the emotions trembling within him.

When Garak couldn’t find the words, Julian came to the rescue. “Oh, Elim,” he said, laughing as he kissed the ridge on top of Garak’s nose and proceeded to babble in his charming accent. “Look at me,” he said, “I can’t stop smiling. Like an absolute loon. But I don’t care. Coming here was the best decision I ever made. I missed you terribly, and now I’m here, and I love you so much.”

Heat spread in Garak’s chest, warming him like a little fire nurtured in the wilderness. As the beginning of tears pricked the corners of his eyes, Garak cupped Julian’s face between his hands and kissed him, hoping to share the sweet sentiment between their lips. “My love,” he choked out, unbelievably happy.

 “Let me stay, Elim. Here. With you. Please?” Julian fluttered his eyelashes. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“I’ll consider it,” Garak said with feigned disinterest, hiding his pleasure at Julian’s enthusiasm even as he rolled onto his back and pulled Julian atop him. Even as he resolved to purchase another bedroll in the morning. He was falling into an abyss of sentimentality and he _couldn’t care less._ His Julian loved him, and that was all that mattered.

Now, standing in the center of their dimly lit apartment, surrounded by their shared belongings, Garak placed a hand on his belly. 

What would it be like, he wondered, to _create_ a life? To have a piece of Julian growing inside him? If that wasn’t enough, he’d also be doing a great service to Cardassia. As Garak gestated the idea, he saw images of Julian as a proud and doting father. He imagined their child - smiling Julian’s smile, loved - a symbol of the bridge between Cardassian and human culture. The idea made him dizzy. The more Garak thought about it, the more he wanted it. Wanted it quite badly.

He needed to sit down. 

Garak pulled a blanket over Julian’s sleeping form and went onto the balcony. He sat on the bench, amid his roses and orchids and the warm Cardassian evening.

There were many ways this fanciful notion could go wrong. Garak was healthy, yes, but past his prime. Any eggs stimulated to maturity would be of questionable quality and thus, Garak surmised, the odds of creating a viable embryo - hybrid or not - were low. Even if by some minor miracle he were to become pregnant, the amount of complications that could befall the fetus between conception and birth were myriad.

And if it were to survive, the poor child would be a social pariah, not to mention--

 _Already expecting the worst, Elim?_ he scolded himself.

Julian would have considered all of this, of course. The mountain of research on their table was evidence enough of how seriously he was taking it. Both Federation and Cardassian science had perfected the process of turning skin cells into ova centuries ago; if natural techniques proved ineffective, Julian would surely find one that worked. That Bashir stubbornness Garak had grown to love would make this dream a reality.

As for their child becoming a pariah - well, as the humans were fond of saying: they’d cross that bridge when they reached it. Garak wasn’t so naive as to expect no harm would come to their child, but between himself and Julian, they both possessed enough experience as outcasts to equip their child with an armory of defenses. 

Muffled through the walls of the housing complex, Garak could hear the faint cries of their neighbor’s infant, followed by the mother’s comforting words as she settled him back to sleep. Garak smiled to himself; most importantly their child would have the one vital thing neither of them had experienced themselves: loving, caring parents.

“Hey, you.”

Garak turned to find Julian standing at the threshold of the balcony, still bleary-eyed with sleep, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Ah, my dear,” Garak said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no. I woke myself up by snoring.” Julian gave a sheepish smile and took a step closer. He stopped and fiddled with the blanket’s tassels.  

“Is something the matter?”

“I was just wondering …” He cleared his throat. “Did you happen to, uh, read any of those journals that I left lying about? The ones on the table?” 

“I did,” Garak said neutrally, giving nothing away.

Julian squirmed. “And what did you … I mean, do you have any, any thoughts … or, uh, opinions … I don’t, I mean …”

Taking pity on his husband reduced to such an anxious state, Garak scooted to the other side of the bench and patted the warmed seat beside him. “Julian, why don’t you sit down?”

With a visible sigh of relief, Julian sank onto the bench. He relaxed further as Garak wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him even closer. Resting his chin on Garak’s neckridge, he murmured, “Do you remember what it was like, holding Peret?”

“As I recall, she was quite taken with me.” 

Julian chuckled. “Well, I was thinking. Things have settled down, more or less, and …” He scrubbed at his face. “You’re going to make me spit the whole thing out, aren’t you?”

“If I did that, I sense I’d be here a very long time, and it’s getting cold.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you had me sit next to you, is it?”

Garak smiled smugly for a moment before sobering. “My love,” he said, “you know I didn’t have an idyllic childhood. By any stretch of the imagination. I never expected to come this far, to have someone like you _love_ me.” Garak swallowed, finding himself as emotional as he’d been that evening when they’d first made love. Julian reached down and squeezed his hand, silently urging him to continue. “There is a great deal we have to discuss,” he said, “but, right now - my dear, I’d be _honored_ to carry your child.”

Julian’s answer came in the form of a deep and insistent kiss that rendered Garak momentarily lost in the warmth of soft, hungry lips and the undertow of unconditional, unwavering love. 

Julian broke away and gazed up at him with glittering dark eyes. “We’re going to be wonderful parents, Elim.”

Garak had some reservations about his own capabilities, but he had no doubts about Julian’s ability to be a nurturing and doting father. “We will,” he agreed. 

“I’m sorry you found out this way. I know, I should’ve asked you sooner, but I wanted to be sure it was possible before getting our hopes up and--”

Garak silenced the babbling, unnecessary apologies with another sweet, lingering kiss. After a time, Julian tugged Garak to his feet and led him back inside to celebrate. Garak uncorked one of his precious bottles of kanar and they toasted embarking upon this new journey together.

It wasn’t long before they’d drained the bottle and were kissing again, clinging to each other for support. Together, they stumbled through the darkness and into the bedroom.

With a growl that was almost Cardassian in its intensity, Julian sank his teeth into Garak’s neckridge and slurred insincere apologies as Garak moaned and bucked his hips.

“Elim,” Julian purred. He pushed Garak onto the bed. While one uncoordinated hand unfastened his pants, the other settled on Garak’s belly. Julian’s palm radiated warmth as he rubbed circles over the bare scales. “Oh, Elim, luv, I’m gonna put a baby inside you.” 

Head swimming, Garak smiled dreamily and pulled Julian closer. “You’re most welcome to try, my love.”


End file.
